


Only Lost The Night

by Kawaiibooker



Series: More Ghosts Than People [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Choking, Cowboys Being Soft, First Kiss, Fishing (non-graphic), Hurt/Comfort, I'll stop adding tags when Arthur stops getting hurt, M/M, MAJOR spoilers for chapter 3, Recovery, Slow Burn, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-09 16:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16453688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiibooker/pseuds/Kawaiibooker
Summary: "Arthur should've realized, then and there, that a gesture of kindness is like pulling a trigger – it shifts the course of fate just so, and things will never be the same again."Charles and Arthur regroup after a brush with death.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [夜中迷失](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16779568) by [Nakira617](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakira617/pseuds/Nakira617)



> Set in Chapter 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by [candeloro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candeloro/pseuds/candeloro).
> 
> Minor spoilers for the mission "Magicians for Sport".

Arthur Morgan is no stranger to sudden, violent escalation.

One moment, you're quietly observing golden beams of light spill over the far horizon as the sun rises from her slumber; the next, you're pushing your horse to the limit, chasing your own shadow across the plains, with gun fire behind and a long run ahead. It turns out shit creek is very much a real place – and whoever holds the universe's reins loves to send Arthur up all the way, no paddle, not even a damn boat in sight.

Which is why, when rough hands tear him off his saddle and his neck _burns_ under the coarse scrape of a rope, he's not exactly shocked. Surprised, yes – even after the week he's had, it'd take a stone-cold, dead heart for it not to skip a beat or three – and yet.

Yet, Arthur clings to the ever-tightening noose, to that crucial inch of space he pried free with bruising fingers and the fractions of a breath he can draw, blinks past the black spots in his vision and catches sight of worn blue–

Suddenly, the sounds of a world gone dim return in an overwhelming rush, and Arthur holds his throat, gulps in precious air through the mix of pain and hazy panic clouding his brain.

“Arthur? Hey, hey, easy. It's me.”

 _Charles_ , Arthur recognizes, deliriously; without conscious thought, his body slumps, almost limp in the grip of strong, steady hands and a touch grown so familiar over the past months.

“That's it, breathe. You with me?”

“Yeah”, he says– wants to say, but the word rattles between his lungs and his mouth and loses its vowels. Fuck, his neck _hurts._ Still: Arthur meets the calm steel in Charles's gaze, and the ghost of a smile on the other's lips sets Arthur's rabbiting heart at ease more than he cares to admit.

It seems like mere moments later that Charles slides his arms under Arthur's and pulls – “Come on, up you go. Trelawny's waiting” – and Arthur sways, near-drunk with vertigo. He swallows in a failed attempt to wet his scratchy throat.

“'m up, 'm up.”

Once his legs are somewhat firm and less akin to a young colt's, Arthur kicks his downed assailant in the face, taking some satisfaction in the dry snap of bones under his boot. “Fucker got m'good”, he spits. The hot flare of anger in his stomach momentarily distracts him from his woozy mind.

Behind him, Charles is dusting off a hat against his thigh. Holding it out to Arthur with a mumbled “here”, he shrugs. “Happens to the best of us. I'm just glad I got to you in time.”

A little smug, and touched by fondness. Arthur hums a grateful tune and pulls the brim of his newly-regained hat lower, feeling less vulnerable in its shadow.

He should've realized, then and there, that a gesture of kindness is like pulling a trigger – it shifts the course of fate just so, and things will never be the same again.

*

Dying embers flutter into sparks at the touch of brittle wood. Arthur plants his ass on a pair of folded shirts and scoots as close as he dares to the meager flame flickering to life in the dark.

Around him, the camp breathes in loud snores and the snorts of grazing horses, falling into cadence with the _chirp chirp_  of the first stubborn crickets – a comforting song reaching decades back and, usually, it guides Arthur back to sleep better than any lullaby he knows.

Usually, his neck doesn't hurt like a motherfucker, and things as basic as eating and drinking and _breathing_ come easy. Usually.

With the tip of his boot, he pushes the log further into the smoldering coals, silently willing it to catch properly. Even this far south, the winter's chill still clings to the early morning hours. “Fuck off”, he grumbles quietly, and squints up at the moon as if she's to blame for any of this.

He didn't think of putting on a jacket, or even bringing his sorry excuse of a blanket. Arthur sighs, deeply.

“Might want to consider lightening up a little. You're starting to look more miserable than Swanson.”

A warm weight lands on Arthur's lap. Sheepskin, fleece intact and clean. Arthur huffs, “Don't think that's possible”, and ignores the sting in his throat. He draws the pelt around his shoulders, nodding once at the outline of Charles in the faint firelight.

“Thanks.”

“That's more like it.”

“Also, bite me.”

“You're welcome.”

Arthur meets Charles's raised eyebrow with a small smirk and pats the tree stump beside him. While he gets comfortable, Arthur throws another scrap of wood into the fire, and watches it glow bright with heat for a while. Finally, the tell-tale crackling gains strength, and smoke starts rising in an uneven haze. Arthur tries not to cough, fails, grimaces as it pulls at the sore muscles of his neck.

"This whole gettin' choked to death business? 's really no fun–"

The brush of careful fingers against his jaw is unexpected and anticipated at the same time, like the logical solution to a puzzle left unsolved for too long. Before he's fully aware of it, Arthur trails off, holding his breath, holding utterly still to stop himself from leaning into it.

Charles draws back a little. He rumbles, “Let me see?”, voice low. Hesitant, for the first time since they've met.

Arthur opens his mouth, _'s not that bad_ , the words are on his tongue. He clenches his jaw shut, tilts his head back, and hopes the dark will hide how fast his pulse is going.

Charles's touch is feather-light, barely putting pressure on the bruised and swollen mess that is his throat. Arthur tenses regardless, the burst of pain and sudden realization of _oh fuck, this is how I die_ too fresh on his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at Charles's deepening frown.

“Hurts?”

“Not... Earlier, yeah. Been better. 's okay now.”

“Earlier?”

Charles leans closer, thumb moving below his adam's apple. Arthur's breaths grow shallower, physically forcing himself not to swallow. “Uh”, he tries to round up his scattering thoughts. “Tried to eat. Bad idea.”

“Mh.” The searching prodding smooths out to gentle strokes, up and down the delicate skin over his pulse point. Arthur's eyes go half-lidded, his hands limp in his lap.

“Not the worst you've had, though.”

There it is again, that wry fondness that Arthur has started to crave in the lost hours of the night, when his tent feels too cold and his cot too empty. Something in the back of his mind is trying to remind him why indulging... this – whatever simmers between them, has been simmering since the very beginning – is not good.

It's getting harder and harder to pay attention to it, though.

Arthur hums, a soft sound just between them; he reaches for Charles's hand, flattening the other's palm against his neck, and the quiet thrum of pain lingering there relents to his warmth.

"Maybe”, Arthur admits, a hopeful whisper in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red Dead Redemption 2 currently owns my soul, and all my free time.
> 
> As always, yell at me over [tumblr](https://kawaiibooker.tumblr.com) and/or [twitter](https://twitter.com/kawaiibooker).
> 
> (For my Witcher peeps - don't worry, I'll return once I've indulged in the cowboy hype a little!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by [candeloro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candeloro/pseuds/candeloro).
> 
> Major spoilers for the mission "Blessed Are the Peacemakers".
> 
> Please mind the update to the tags!

Three days.

Patrolling the edge of the woods, Charles's gaze turns northward, and not for the first time.

Three days ago, he stood guard at the very same spot, raising a hand in silent farewell to the group of three leaving camp: Dutch, easily recognizable by his snow-white horse and booming voice; Micah, bowed low, handling the reins with too-rough hands; and Arthur, caught between the two and shoulders visibly tense, even from afar...

A glance of striking blue filled with concern and a grim nod, that's all Charles got before Arthur's brown mare had galloped past and they were out of sight. Hours later, the rumors of a possible truce between them and the O'Driscolls finally reached him, and when Charles's eyes met Javier's over the dwindling firelight, he only saw his own worry reflected.

_This is a mistake._

The words went unsaid, as they often did as of late. Instead, Charles tossed and turned in his cot, and paced the perimeter for three days–

In the dead of night, only two had returned – and Charles gave up on sleep altogether.

*

“Dutch.”

Calm, collected, neutral. Charles's indifferent mask can be nigh-impossible to read if he wants to – Arthur has teased him about it countless times, _ya ain't foolin' me, though_ , smile bright and usually weary eyes glinting with quiet pleasure – and yet, Dutch's jaw instantly clenches with annoyance.

“Not now, Mr. Smith”, he says, dismisses him with a pointed look, but Charles doesn't budge. He's faced down raging bison, snarling wolves, storms and blizzards and a dizzying variety of human cruelty only those remaining of his people could attest to; nothing Dutch van der Linde could throw at him could be worse, short of death, and maybe not even that.

Then again, something tells him Dutch knows that, too.

“I volunteer–“

“–for more patrols, yes, if you feel like running yourself ragged, be my guest, Mr.–“

“–to lead a search party”, Charles finishes icily, hands linking behind his back to hide how they clench to fists. “I'm the best tracker we have. And Arthur's horse is too well-bred to be worth shooting. She'll lead us right to them.”

Dutch's expression hasn't moved a single inch from the aloof-slash-assertive air he surrounds himself with, and his voice is too forcibly amicable to be anything but. He steps closer, placing a firm hand on Charles's shoulder.

“My dear Charles, I'm afraid you have jumped to conclusions. Yes, things got a bit heated – but Arthur knows what he's doing. He'll rejoin us when the dust has settled. Until then, I can _assure_ you: He is safe.”

“Dutch...”

Fingers dig deeper, hard enough to hurt. The understanding smile on Dutch's lips turns forced.

“Enough, Charles. You have been with us a while now and put in commendable work. Arthur is a dear friend to you, so I'll let it pass this once. Don't make me regret it.”

Charles holds his gaze for a moment longer, nods, _submits_.

“Understood.”

Night falls, and Charles pulls himself silently into the saddle, leading Taima through the woods and out into the open with the silent presence of the moon as his only companion.

*

The rising sun casts dewy clarity over the planes lying ahead. Charles takes a deep breath, allowing himself a brief respite. The provisions he chews on go down without taste, merely fuel to keep his gears in motion for the difficult track ahead.

His mind doesn't, _can't_ , rest. Not yet.

It's impossible not to be aware that Arthur has been gone half a week, now – and yes, maybe he is laying low and unharmed but Charles's gut feeling says otherwise, and in the long years he spent on his lonesome, his gut has never failed him.

Below him, Taima – finnicky at first from the rude awakening at an unusual time – finds a confident pace she can keep up for hours, exhaling in short bursts with every step. Charles rubs her favorite spot high on the crest of her mane.

With enough effort, he could convince himself this is just another hunt.

That's the thing about not being alone though: Once you let people close, their presence grows familiar, and it is easy to forget how life was without them.

Charles scoffs. _Right_. There is no need to pretend this – his current predicament, the last three, no, four days, the past year – is a people-thing. Because it's not.

Keeping Dutch's gang at arm's length, not letting himself get too attached... It wasn't such a struggle until he started noticing how gentle Arthur handles new horses, even the skittish ones; how hands so adept at killing become nimble, almost graceful, provided little more than a pen and some scraps of paper; how the tension around his eyes eases with the first draw from a freshly-lit cigarette.

No. _This_ is definitely an Arthur-thing, and Charles is powerless to stop it.

It was after the run-in with those bounty hunters weeks ago that Charles realized maybe... he doesn't have to. Now Arthur only has to manage to stay out of trouble and _alive_ long enough for Charles to do something about it.

“C'mon”, he mumbles, letting Taima fall into a light canter. “Let's find that fool.”

Knowing where to start is the first crucial step of every hunt – fortunately, the only person seeing him sneak away was Javier, and from him Charles got the gist of what happened in low whispers. _Dutch is gonna be pissed_ , he'd cautioned, shaking his head, _bring him back or don't return at all,_ and Charles had given him a tight-lipped smile and said nothing.

The steep Heartland hills put Taima to work, and she's huffing and sweating by the time they reach the location Javier named. Charles dismounts stiffly, his thighs aching from riding and protesting all the more as he crouches down to inspect the ground.

Criss-crossing hoof prints, too many to tell them apart, relatively fresh. _Good enough._ He whistles for Taima to follow, and sets off.

*

Minutes blur into hours, and Charles has made his way further east when he finds Arthur's hat. He almost misses it, trampled and half-covered by dust and bits of grass as it is – for a moment, he just stares, heart twisting in his chest like a living thing.

Like the sky is blue and water is wet, Arthur always, _always_ goes back for his hat.

“Fuck this”, Charles hisses. He's in the saddle and galloping ahead before he knows it, the reins in one hand and the hat pressed to his chest with the other. The tracks are easy to see, now: at least four, five horses passed through not too long ago, cutting straight through the landscape without regard.

 _Confidence, or recklessness?_ It doesn't matter; they'll regret it either way, and soon.

Up ahead, he can make out the Dakota River, glinting silver in the bright midday sun. A lone figure appears before it, outline hazy, almost hallucinatory in the heat. Charles squints, gathers Taima into a ball of tension beneath him, ready for anything–

_Is that–?_

“Arthur!”

They burst forth, the thundering of hooves and the beat of his heart mixing into one. Charles calls out again, cursing between clenched teeth because _he's not reacting_ , why is he not–

“Morgan? Hey, say something you damn–“

The momentum carries them in a wide circle around the familiar brown mare and Charles holds his breath, catching sight of Arthur slumped over her neck and blood, lots of it, all over his back and the horse's shoulder, too.

 _Shit._ Dyani looks ready to bolt, nostrils flared wide open and eyes near-frenzied with stress as she pants in loud bursts. Charles glances at her rider's precarious position, mind rushing a mile a minute – calm the horse, or grab Arthur first?

_If he's alive, that is._

There's no time to panic; keeping the adrenaline pumping through his veins out of his voice, Charles soothes, “It's okay, Dyani”, pressing ever closer to grab the reins. The horse trembles in place, ears dancing from left to right. “Shh, girl, calm now. You're safe.”

He's got her by the second try, and coaxes Taima beside her, mindful not to squash Arthur in the process.

_Please be alive._

With the horses' flanks touching, Charles reaches over and _pulls_ , sliding back to drag Arthur's limp body into his own saddle. “Arthur?” – nothing, not even a groan or a strained breath, and blood readily soaks into his shirt as he holds him tight with an arm around his waist–

But there's a pulse too, beating weakly against his, and Charles clings to it with everything he's got, vowing never to let go.

*

The clear trickle turns red, then pink every time Charles wrings out the cloth.

Arthur lies on a hastily spread bedroll little ways up shore, on the first patch of dry grass Charles could find once he decided they're far enough away to risk a temporary camp. It's certainly not perfect – somewhat secluded from the main road by a line of bushes, it still leaves them wide open and vulnerable in many other aspects – but Charles'd rather fend off any trespassers than leave Arthur's wounds to fester uncontested.

Kneeling by his friend's side, Charles glances over the progress he's made. Dressed in worn, clean clothes he found in one of Arthur's saddlebags, days worth of blood, sweat and grime had given way to purple-green bruises in various stages of healing. Even now, with the worst of it tended to, Charles's lips thin to a tense line at the obvious signs of torture and malnourishment.

_Fucking O'Driscolls._

Before, he'd been largely neutral towards this feud between Colm and Dutch – it happened long before his time in the gang, and wasn't as much of a problem then as it is now – but _this_ happened on Charles's watch, and if Dutch isn't willing to avenge it...

Charles shakes his head. _Nothing to be done about it, now._

The wound on Arthur's shoulder is his biggest concern; its edges are torn and only partly-cauterized, leaving it a welcome breeding ground for infection or worse. Having dealt with guns and the damage they can do all his life, Charles can imagine all-too-vividly what must've happened.

 _A bit further down and he'd be dead on the spot_ , goes through his mind, and not for the first time, he pauses to breathe.

The cloth leaks small rivulets down Arthur's discolored skin as Charles digs into the wound and _twists_ , ignoring the weak moan coming from the downed man. Only when it turns into a soft plea that sounds sickeningly close to “stop” does Charles look up, caught utterly off guard by Arthur's feverish gaze on him.

“Charles...?”

Easing up on his shoulder, Charles leans into his field of view, cupping Arthur's flushed cheek with his not-bloodied hand. He tries not to think too much of the difference in body temperature.

“Yeah, it's me. Stay put, okay? You've been shot.”

Arthur blinks, slowly, resting his head against Charles's palm. “'s Dutch 'kay?”, he rasps, eyes closed and brows drawn tight against the pain. “Trap. 's a–”

“Dutch is fine”, assures Charles with a little too much force; calmer, he says: “Don't worry about anyone else, alright? Just... keep still, I'll get us out of here in no time.”

Arthur wheezes out, “'kay, boss”, and the trace of humor is so unexpected Charles laughs.

“Don't sass me, you crazy fool. I'm not the one who got himself captured, escaped, and rode dozens of miles while bleeding out.”

A wet chuckle. Arthur grimaces. “'s a talent, Charles. Stopped questionin' it long ago.”

“Doesn't stop me from worrying, though. Now shush, I'm almost done.”

The wound is as clean as it's going to get – Charles wraps it in generous amounts of gauze and hopes it'll hold for a few hours, at least. The horses should be good to go too, having spent the time grazing on every available tuft of grass around them.

Arthur has quieted down considerably, enough so that Charles thinks he's lost consciousness. When he buttons up his shirt, however, his lids flutter open again, squinting against the sun high in the sky.

Charles meets his questioning glance with a sympathetic wince. “We need to move. Want something for the pain?”

Arthur nods, too exhausted to speak. Carefully, Charles props him against his knee, holding him upright and letting him sip some whiskey within measured pauses. “Let's get this over with”, he mutters, whistling Taima over and trying not to aggravate any of Arthur's wounds as he manhandles him into the saddle.

Like before, he slides behind him, and with Dyani following dutifully, they set off up-stream.

Arthur falls into an uneasy sleep soon enough; Charles shifts to allow his head to rest against his shoulder. Listening to his rough panting, he tightens the steadying grip against his chest, gaze fixed on the far horizon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else died during that torture scene? (´•̥̥̥ω•̥̥̥`)
> 
> I have some more ideas and scenarios to add to this, however, I'm writing while I'm playing through the game (currently on Chapter 6), so it might be a bit all over the place. I promise: I'll be giving it my best to update soon <3
> 
> [tumblr](https://kawaiibooker.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/kawaiibooker)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by [candeloro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candeloro/pseuds/candeloro).
> 
> No further spoilers this time. Enjoy!

The coffee comes out of the pot piping hot, quickly warming his mug and filling the morning air with its scent.

Arthur downs it in big gulps, wincing as it burns down his throat. The bad taste in his mouth is gone, though, and his queasy stomach settles with something to digest. The cold sweat he wakes up in every morning, or the tremor in his hands, well – recovery, as it turns out, is one tough son of a bitch, much more so when your alcohol supply is out of reach.

A sigh worms its way out his mouth, clouding white in front of him. There's precious little for him to do in camp – he can barely raise his left arm higher than chest height without pulling some wound or other – and most of the gang's inner workings come along well without his input.

This must be the longest Arthur's been off duty in... a while. It's disorienting, to say the least.

It doesn't help that, additionally to Miss Grimshaw's care – a duty she caries out with a gruff undertone in her voice but an indulgent glint in her eyes –, Charles has been watching him like a hawk, grumbling about his hard work going to waste otherwise.

Arthur would be the first to admit that drinking himself into a stupor a week into his mandatory bedrest was not his brightest moment. It definitely beat sitting on his ass all day long, doing fuck-all to earn his keep.

At this rate, he'll end up going to the dogs like Uncle. Isn't that a fun thought to entertain?

Even now he can feel the man's gaze on him, all the way across camp. Arthur raises his mug in the general direction of Charles's usual post, and plants himself on one of the logs surrounding the camp fire. _See, I can be good, too._

A lazy salute is his meagre reward. Arthur shakes his head, only noticing the smile on his own face when he goes to light a cigarette. Drawing deep, he exhales slowly, finding himself enjoying the bite of nicotine on his tongue instead of merely going through the motions.

Maybe he can ask Hosea for one of them crime novels he's been so involved with lately. _How was the author called again?_ Arthur flicks the excess ash to the ground, chasing the name on the tip of his tongue. _Nope, gone._  Never been his strongest suit, books, but Jack's seems interested too as of late, and with how things have been, the boy deserves some hero's tale or other to dream of.

… not one of Hosea's, then. God knows the kid sees enough blood and death as is.

Gaze lost in the fire and with nowhere else to go, Arthur's thoughts drift like smoke in the wind. To Jack, and how somewhere in this mess, he became _Uncle Arthur_ to him. About that boy Kieran, so desperate for somewhere to belong it's painful to watch at times, and John, who had it all and disappeared who-knows-where all the same. Dutch and Hosea and that ever-shifting dream they keep chasing.

And yet his fingers itch for... something more, something to touch, to hold on to, like a pen or a gun or–

A genuine connection, to tether his very being to something bigger than himself. _What if_ , Arthur thinks.

_What if, what if._

He blows another puff into the sky and watches it disappear into nothingness.

*

“Okay. Hunting. Nothin' fancy, just a doe or two. Need practice with that bow, right? Takes a lifetime to master, an' all that–”

“No.”

“Oh for... _One_ ride. To– to the general store in Rhodes, or, uh, to the tree line and back. A glimpse at the fields.”

Charles hitches his elbow on his knee, hand under his chin. “No”, he repeats, the low, serious timbre of his voice crumbling with veiled amusement. A searching gaze is leveled on Arthur, the kind to reveal every weakness hiding under his skin.

“Is that what it takes, Morgan? Two weeks in camp?”

“Ain't beggin' yet”, Arthur mumbles under his breath and throws Charles an unhappy look – Charles, who is currently sitting cross-legged on _his_ saddle stand, confident as a king and entitled like one, too. Behind him, Dyani sniffs Charles's hair and pushes it around with her nose, rubbing his shoulder in the process.

It took Arthur weeks of constant work (and treats) to get the hang of the Andalusian's fickle temper and here they are, chummy like old friends. _Traitors, the lot of them._ Arthur's shoulders slump in defeat.

“ _Fine_ , have it your way.”

The statement isn't immediately followed by action, however. The mere thought of wasting more hours walking a line into the dirt, watching people come and go and feeling their sympathetic eyes on him is revolting to an almost physical degree. Arthur stares at his cot, just a few feet away, and can't bring himself to _move_.

“Arthur.”

Just his name, without pity. He closes his eyes and rubs his neck, staring at his boots as he struggles to find the right words.

“Just feelin' useless, is all. Can't do nothin' for weeks now an' with the O'Driscolls and whoever else breathin' down our necks... Ain't the man I am, Charles. To sit around an' wait for things to happen.”

A rustle of movement makes him glance up. Charles hops to his feet, easy as anything, and Arthur barely registers he's throwing something until he's grabbed it. _A fishing rod?_ Arthur tilts his head with a frown.

“But you–”

“Teach me”, Charles says simply, and all Arthur can do is shut his mouth and nod, trying (and failing) to ignore how warm his chest feels.

*

Little by little, the smooth lines of graphite connect, fill in blank space, spill over the shadowed fold between the pages and beyond.

The gentle rocking of the boat, the rhythmic lapping of water against lacquered wood, the sting of a wound, still healing – it all fades into the background, there but muted as his attention is bracketed by the edges of his journal.

With the sun warming his back, Arthur draws.

In front of him sits Charles, leaning back just as he is, feet propped up against the boat's curved hull. Rod and line in place, his eyes are alert and search the surface of the lake for any movement, the very picture of endless patience. The breeze plays with a loose strand of his hair before he reaches up and tucks it away.

Charles fishes, and Arthur draws... him. 

(Arthur's sketch of Charles by [@ISpitznagel](https://twitter.com/ISpitznagel))

His shoulder doesn't allow him to sit as he usually does, legs folded close to his chest and journal balanced on his knees, angled away so nobody can see what he's working on. The members of the gang quickly learned that whoever tries is more likely to catch a fist to the jaw than a glimpse at his sketches. What is to others a collection of landscapes and animals and the odd person, to Arthur, well...

Things in his life don't have the best relationship with permanence, as it were. He'd rather commit what he can to paper before they inevitably disappear too.

Charles asks later, “What do you think of when you draw?”, when the light has grown too weak to keep going and Arthur reached for his pack of cigs to occupy his hands instead. Arthur, who drew in his lap instead of on his knees and knows that Charles saw.

He finds he doesn't mind one bit.

“Depends”, he mutters, stretching his legs out as far as the narrow boat allows, bumping against Charles's hip. “Sometimes nothin', sometimes somethin' I can't put words to just yet. Just keepin' track of things, in my own way. Makes 'em less _unfathomable_ , if I may borrow one of them fancy terms.”

Charles snorts, “You may”, his grin there and gone in a flash. He's set aside the fishing rod – with the bucket they brought along filled to the brim with fish, there wouldn't be anywhere to put them anyways –, merely watching Arthur smoke now.

“Never was much the artistic type, myself. Looks all a bit like magic to me.”

Arthur grins back, offering him a cig of his own. Charles shrugs and takes one out of the box, leaning close to the match Arthur lights for him; his face is momentarily lit by its flaring tip, his eyes reflecting the embers' glow.

Their fingers brush and Arthur hums, exhales another smoke-filled breath into the night sky.

“Well I'd show you how, Charles, but if you take to it as quickly as fishin', what unique skills would that leave me with?”

Charles shrugs. “I can think of some”, he counters easily, another step in this dance of theirs that they slip into on nights like these. Teasing words wrapped around tender spots and soft-spoken secrets. Arthur takes the compliment for what it is, shaking his head fondly.

They smoke. Arthur tells Charles of the time he went fishing with Jack, months ago now; how hard it had been for the kid to focus on the fish, and less so on picking flowers.

“Seems the creative sort, you know? Better to let 'em make things. Kid's too young for all this crap we keep puttin' him through.”

“Does Marston know, though?” Charles sighs. “Some days it seems to me like you're more of a father to that boy than he is.”

Arthur frowns, rubs at his chest and that dull ache that, years later, is still there.

“Well, in some ways... Can't up and leave for a year an' expect things to remain the same, I guess. But John cares, or at least I think he does.” A pause. “'cause that's the thing, ain't it? Dutch taught us to give a shit 'bout family an' whatnot but, John an' I, we ain't got the same charisma he does. 's one of those things that's easier said than done.”

For a while, Charles says nothing. Just sits and smokes, looking into the distance. Turning some thought or other in his head, Arthur assumes. Eventually: “Guess you're right. Just doesn't feel good, seeing a kid on the run. Too much of that, as of late.”

“Ain't that the truth”, Arthur nods, righting himself to shake off some of the somber mood weighing on his shoulders. Smirking, he nudges Charles's knee with his own. “Just glad he stuck by that when them O'Driscolls got me. Didn't know I was even worthy of the best damn rescue squad we got.”

Charles's eyes snap to his then, narrowing a fraction. “Huh?”

“Dutch, I mean. An' you.”

“Oh.” That peculiar expression vanishes, Charles's face all-too-neutral. “Guess so”, he repeats, and Arthur draws back a little.

“Did I, uh–“ Glancing down, Arthur fiddles with the burned-out stub, staining his fingers with ash. “Didn't mean no offense, Charles. Been complainin' a lot but I wouldn't be here at all without you. Just wanted to let you know, 'm takin' none of that for granted.”

Suddenly Charles's hand is there, giving Arthur's a gentle squeeze. “Hey. That's not what I meant. Was just somewhere else, there.”

Automatically, Arthur squeezes back.

“Point still stands. Thank you.”

A quiet chuckle reels him back in, as it always does these days, “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, you know that”, and Arthur can't _not_ look up at those words, searching his expression for– What, exactly?

 _What if, what if._ The distance is gone, Charles's gaze warming further as Arthur's thumb brushes over the scarred back of his hand, feeling the calm rhythm of his pulse against his.

“What are we doing, Charles?”

The question is soft, said without any idea where it's headed: a road untraveled, missing from every map yet waiting to be explored.

Charles blinks, taken off guard. He opens his mouth, hesitates, admits, “Whatever you want us to”, sounding just as vulnerable as Arthur feels.

A split-second decision: Arthur tugs, Charles follows, catching himself against the boat. “Arthur”, he whispers, close enough Arthur can feel his breath on his face.

Arthur rasps, “Tell me to stop”, but Charles never does; he leans in, interlacing their fingers in the same moment their lips meet, tentatively – Arthur's eyes flutter shut, his fingers find the collar of Charles's shirt blindly, pull him ever-closer as he melts into it.

They barely part between one kiss and the next; Arthur murmurs Charles's name with the little breath he can catch, and “Fuck”, as Charles's tongue pushes into his mouth and he tastes smoke. His blood sings, throbbing in his veins in a dizzying rush, all the more prominent when Charles's thigh slides between his, caging him in–

The white-hot flash of pain comes so unexpected Arthur gasps, twisting his shoulder away from the pressure. Charles flinches, leans back, “Shit, sorry”, he pants out, mouth spit-slick and eyes wide.

Arthur can barely hear it over how loud his heart is, drumming away in his chest– “'m okay”, he says because Charles looks like he needs to hear it, but he doesn't let go, _not yet_.

“Come back. Please?”

Charles sways like he's drunk, nods – presses his forehead against Arthur's, noses brushing, but his tone is cautious, now. “We– This is not wise. You need time to heal.”

Arthur laughs, more than a little husky. “Do I look like I care about wise right now? Fuck, Charles.”

Charles's voice isn't faring much better; he hums a low “mmhm” before he kisses Arthur again, fleetingly. “Fuck me, indeed. I swear I had pure intentions with this.”

“You hate fishing. Dunno why you tried to convince me otherwise.”

“... I do, sorry.”

They share a smile, and Arthur shakes his head, tracing the curve of Charles's lips with his thumb.

“I don't mind. I prefer the alternative, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took Arthur almost dying TWICE for them to kiss. God have mercy on these two idiots.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta [candeloro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candeloro/pseuds/candeloro) for the beautiful art! Give her a follow on twitter if you'd like: [@ISpitznagel](https://twitter.com/ISpitznagel).
> 
> There's [more wonderful fanart](http://nateobite.tumblr.com/post/180193603118/if-you-havent-read-this-brilliant-charlesarthur) for this by [nateobite](nateobite.tumblr.com), thank you so much!
> 
> [MORE FANART](http://dandywondrous.tumblr.com/post/180734724673/kawaiibooker-is-doing-the-lords-work-so-heres) by [dandywondrous](http://dandywondrous.tumblr.com) this time, I'm so grateful ;A;
> 
> That's it for this one c: I tend to work better in series of shorter fics, so I will definitely continue their story in a different one soon! Let me know what you think <3
> 
> [tumblr](https://kawaiibooker.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/kawaiibooker).


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